


Lo Siento

by methylethyl



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 11:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylethyl/pseuds/methylethyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Brian is an emotionally-retarded empath, Justin accidentally bonds to him, and Lindsay is an unhelpful guru of magic with 'contacts'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lo Siento

**Lo Siento**

The alarm buzzes obnoxiously, and Brian leans over the body next to him and hits the snooze button without even opening his eyes. He flops back down on the bed, still mostly asleep, and realizes that he's feeling…

Christ, he feels  _pleased_. Content. Kind of excited.

Then the raging headache wakes him up a little more, and he realizes that the feelings aren't his own, but belong to whatever idiot is lying next to him. Great. The stupid thing must have slipped open, a funny dream or something.

But when he tries to close it, he finds that he can't. It won't close.

This alone is enough to send a jolt of fear down his spine, and his eyes snap open to stare at the stranger who has now started to  _touch_  him.

Twink. Blond. His besotted expression completely matches with the steady thrum of happiness that Brian is feeling in the back of his head.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Brian demands.

 _And why the hell can't I shut my fucking sixth sense off?_

He feels a flash of nervousness from the kid, and the happiness dissipates.

"You said I could stay," the kid says.

Brian thinks for a moment, casting back to last night, and eventually memories start flashing back to him. Fuck. The kid really  _is_  a kid, fucking seventeen years old, sneaking out and lying to his parents for a misadventure on Liberty Avenue.

"Right," he says at last.

Why can't he shut this fucking thing down? He can feel the kid's fragile balance of anxiety and letdown, threaded with hope, and it's fucking annoying—this is why he keeps the fucking thing shut—why won't it just—fuck—this has never fucking  _happened_ —

He gives an almighty push and there's a spike of fear from the kid that makes his eyes fly open again.

"You're angry," the kid says hesitantly, the aftershocks of fear still vibrating in the back of Brian's head. "What—why are you angry?"

"I'm not angry," Brian says through gritted teeth. He brings his hands up to his face and presses his palms into his eyes. No use explaining to the little brat that his stupid sixth sense is malfunctioning this morning.

He feels a flare of indignation from the kid.

"Yeah, you are," the kid insists. "And you're scared. What's wrong?"

Irritation flashes—his own this time—and in the back of his head there's a steeling of resolve in response.

And that's when it hits him.

Brian slowly brings his hands away from his face, cracking his eyes open to stare at the kid. He summons feelings of utter elation and projects the hell out of them—

And the kid breaks into a smile.

"Fuck," Brian swears, sitting up.

The kid's smile vanishes.

Brian stares at him. "What the  _fuck_  did you do?"

"What?" the kid says, eyes widening as Brian picks up on his fear again. "What do you mean, what did I do? I didn't do anything."

"You—you made some kind of  _bond_  between us," Brian all but snarls. "Shut it off. Now."

The kid stares at him, and there is nothing but pure bewilderment coming from him. "Bond? What do you—"

Brian's temper just about shorts, and the kid's eyes widen, his disbelief almost explosive.

"You mean you can—"

"Yes."

"You're—"

"Yes."

The kid blinks. " _Wow_."

"Cut the fucking bond already," Brian snaps.

The kid frowns, then frowns harder, and then he bites his lip and screws up his face—in a way that is not at all adorable—and he stays like that for several seconds before he lets out a breath, sagging.

"What?" Brian demands, still feeling the hum of emotion from the kid.

"I can't close it, either," the kid says, looking at him with newly worried eyes.

Well, fuck.

 

 

"Oh," Lindsay says, blinking at him. "Well. I, uh…"

"Fix it," Brian growls, stopping his pacing to scowl at her. On the couch, the kid—Justin—is twitching nervously, probably as a result of the irritation he's feeling from Brian.

"You know, we did only get home from the hospital three hours ago," Melanie says, sticking her head into the living room, arms full of a wailing Gus. "This couldn't have waited a few days?"

"Why don't you focus on getting my son to stop crying?" Brian suggests. "Boy. Day one, and already you're failing as a parent. How's it feel?"

"Brian," Lindsay admonishes from the couch, frowning.

Brian scowls, but turns away from Melanie. "Well? Any ideas?"

Lindsay shrugs delicately. "Do you even know how rare it is that the two of you would even meet? It's only happened once or twice before in recorded history. But I do remember reading something about how when one empath sensed another, they both immediately shied away from feeling each other. It's almost taboo to do so. This… might be why."

"Wait, but I didn't… I didn't sense that Brian was…" Justin trails off uneasily from the couch, eying Brian with trepidation. "I mean, I didn't think I did. I've never met another person like me before, so maybe…"

"Oh no, Justin, it's quite Brian's fault," Lindsay says, sounding almost amused.

Brian gives her a look of deepest loathing. "It's fucking well  _not_."

"If you wouldn't keep yourself closed down all the time, Justin would have recognized what you were and known to not tune into you," Lindsay says reasonably. "This is why it's better to embrace your gift, Brian, instead of stuffing it away all the time."

"How come you don't use it?" Justin asks.

Brian glares at him, shoving as much irritation into the link as he can, but he's met with stubbornness and defiance.

Justin's glaring right back at him.

"How do we get rid of it?" Brian asks Lindsay, ignoring Justin for now.

She shakes her head. "I don't know. Give me a few days to read up on it, call a few people… I've never even heard of it happening before."

"Great," Brian mutters.

Lindsay sighs, her eyes going to the twink on the couch. "Congratulations, Justin. For the time being, you're linked to the most emotionally-retarded empath you'll ever meet."

 

 

By the second day of this… link thing, it's clear that Justin is an  _emotional kid_.

Brian is fairly certain that his own emotional state has very little variance over the course of the day—irritated and horny really just about cover it—but having this link to an overly-emotional teenager is driving him up the wall.

Oh, sure, he can still close himself down to everyone else. He isn't getting stray feelings from Cynthia or Ryder or anything. But all day long, there's a mini opera of the emotional ups and downs of Justin Taylor playing in the back of his head—boredom, happiness, stress, more boredom, irritation, brief flashes of fear and anger… Christ. And all in one day at school! It's next to impossible to concentrate on anything.

He fucks three guys at Babylon that night, and brings two more home with him.

 

 

Brian is slowly learning to tune most of Justin's emotions out, like radio in the background, but occasionally a strong emotion will jolt him out of what he was doing or make him falter in his speech. Stupid brat. Sleeping and fucking are the only two states of being where he can truly stop feeling Justin.

There are a lot of tricks in the loft, nowadays.

A  _lot_  of tricks.

Until one night, when Brian is in the middle of excusing the less exciting half of his orgy and convincing the remaining three to stick around for a foursome, and the phone rings.

"What?" he snaps, the number on the caller ID unfamiliar.

"It's Justin," Justin's voice says tightly through the speaker.

Brian's horniness has died down enough that he's able to register Justin's frustration through the link they share.

"Yeah. And?"

"Do you have any idea how difficult it is to study for my history test when I've been feeling you fuck the shit out of people for the last week?" Justin demands. "I've been jerking off for the last hour, and I need to  _study_ , you asshole."

Brian blinks.

Snorts, eventually.

"Should have started your studying earlier," he says, shrugging and casting a glance at the three men who are currently filing out the door. "I've got a foursome lined up for about the next hour. Then I'll be done for the night. Probably."

"Thanks. That's so helpful."

Justin's irritation is bright and sizzling in the back of Brian's head.

Brian hangs up, laughing.

 

 

Revenge comes swiftly the following day, when Brian is in a meeting with representatives from a jewelry company based in Boston.

"What you're selling is classically designed jewelry, no modern cuts, no cheapened metals made in a lab, and that's your edge. People love historical romance, and everyone knows that the Victorian era was one of the most—"

And Brian is cut off at the sudden floodof lust that sweeps over him.

It takes him a moment to realize that it isn't his own lust he's feeling, but by then the lust has turned to horniness and Brian is  _so fucking hard_. His dick is throbbing and leaking precum like mad, and it's all he can do not to just grab it and start jacking off, right there and then.

"Brian?" Cynthia inquires, from the other end of the table.

Brian clears his throat and slowly, oh-so-discreetly, lowers his clipboard to cover the sudden tent in his pants.

Justin is dead.

So. Dead.

 

 

"Have you found anything yet?"

"Hello to you, too, Brian," Lindsay replies, sounding exasperated. "I'm doing well. Your son's doing well. His  _bris_  is coming up soon, you know."

Brian sighs. "Yeah, whatever. The bond thing, did you find anything about it?"

"No, I haven't. However, when you have an infant around there isn't exactly free time to do research."

"Lindsay," Brian says, through gritted teeth. "I am tied to the emotions of a seventeen year old boy."

"And?" Lindsay is amused.

"And I can't keep popping boners at work, all right?" Brian snaps. "The little shit must jerk off seven times a day!"

Lindsay bursts out laughing.

"What? No, no, this isn't funny, Linds. I could lose clients. I could lose my job!"

Lindsay continues to laugh her head off.

"Fuck you," Brian mutters, hanging up the phone with a disgruntled look.

Lindsay calls back a moment later, still snickering, and promises to ask a friend or two for help on Monday.

 

 

Brian has never had sex while tuned into another person before. He's never cared to feel the emotions of the blithering idiots around him, especially the stupid emotions that sex tended to bring out in people, like love and tenderness and bullshit like that, and really, the idea of connecting emotion with sex in any way is _revolting_.

But after a few days and nights of Justin making him horny at work and Brian deliberately having more sex than usual at night to interfere with Justin's studying, Brian decides that enough is enough.

He fucks Justin into his mattress, hard and fast, and the sensation of his own pleasure mixed with the explosions of ecstasy from Justin is so overwhelming that he comes after two thrusts.

Coming, he sees white.

"Holy  _fuck_ ," Brian breathes, after their third fuck. He's collapsed on the mattress, his mind wondering with equal concern whether he can get it up again and whether Justin's ass can handle a fourth round. It's like crack. Sexual crack.

Maybe Lindsay had been right to call this thing a gift, after all.

 

 

The problem with tuning into people while fucking them—people who aren't Justin, that is—is that it was an entirely one-sided deal. With Justin, it's like they're having sex both physically and mentally, pushing back and forth through the link and drowning in each other's ecstasy on multiple planes. With everyone else, Brian just feels weird. He can experience their pleasure, yes, but he isn't able to interact with it, and that makes the whole thing feel strange, and almost creepy.

Also, he has to deal with their stupid emotions.

At least with Justin, he makes up for the stupid emotions with his multiple-planes-of-existence orgasms.

 

 

Weeks later, Brian's sitting at the desk in the loft and putting the finishing touches on a campaign for air conditioning units when all of a sudden Justin's emotions rocket out of background noise.

Shock. Pain. Fear. Anger. Betrayal.

They practically throb in the back of Brian's head, not spiking, but steadily existing, pulsing like a heartbeat.

The shock is lifting, but there is still pain. Fear. Anger. Betrayal.

Justin has been hurt. Is still hurting.

"Fuck," Brian mutters, gripping his pen tightly. He inhales, closing his eyes. "Stupid fucking kid."

 

 

Justin shows up at his door an hour later, putting on a cheerful front about tagging along to Woody's and Babylon but still flooding their link with hurt and fear and probably not even realizing it. With his split lip, he asks if he can spend the night.

Brian says yes.

 

 

"You fucking pervert!" is all the warning Brian gets before Craig Taylor's fist slams into his face. What follows is a whole hell of a lot of pain, all the while feeling Justin's blazing mixture of terror and anger in the back of his head, which continues well after Taylor has been pulled off of him and they've retreated to the Liberty Diner. Well after Brian has brought Justin back to the loft.

"I'm sorry," Justin says, looking at him miserably.

Brian throws a pile of sheets at him.

"I know you're in pain, and I know you're really irritated with me," Justin says.

"I know you  _know_ ," Brian snaps. "That's the problem."

He feels Justin valiantly try to summon some other feeling to put into the link, but the ghosts of bravery and pride are only shadows on Justin's real emotions. Brian gives him credit for trying, though, and watches him sit down on the couch and swallow back tears.

Neither one of them sleeps until Justin crawls into Brian's bed and cuddles up to him, the terror and anger finally giving way to relief. Brian kind of hates him for that, but strives to keep it out of the bond—and he hates him for that, too.

 

 

Justin is now living with him.

Justin tends to piss him off. A lot.

But when Brian gets angry, he can feel Justin's hurt so acutely that he actually feels  _guilty_  which, of course, just pisses him off even more. Which hurts Justin more. It's like kicking a puppy, and it's exactly why Brian has kept this fucking sixth sense turned off for the last twenty-five years. He doesn't want to feel other people's pain. You can't live with no apologies, no regrets if you have to walk around feeling everyone's pain.

But he can't shut Justin out. Justin is  _special_.

In the end, Brian learns how to deal with his anger at Justin in a way that won't result in kicked-puppy feelings.

Angry sex.

Lots and lots of angry sex.

Which kind of works out well, actually.

 

 

"But—but your bond!" Lindsay had protested. "Brian, how could you?"

"And don't you even think about stepping foot in this diner until Sunshine's back, safe and sound," Debbie had snapped, whacking him on the back of the head hard enough to hurt.

"Road trip, road trip, road trip!" Ted and Emmet had chanted, all but bouncing up and down.

Truthfully, the reason Brian is driving to New York City for the kid is because hadn't slept last night due to the burning emotions he's still getting from Justin, even three hundred miles away, and he knows that he won't be getting much sleep tonight, either, if it goes on. Justin just  _feels_  too much, the stupid twink. Pain. Desolation. Sorrow. They're an ever-present pulse in the back of Brian's head.

He'll get Justin back, and then he'll find a way to cut this fucking bond. For good.

 

 

"What do you mean, you can't break it?" Brian demands.

Lindsay shrugs. "Brian, there's absolutely no literature on it. No one's been able to find a record of this ever happening before. I'm not saying it can't be broken—we just don't know how."

"What a tragedy," Melanie says dryly. "The empath forced to feel—wait for it— _empathy_. Wow. You should take that one right to the Supreme Court, you should."

Lindsay tries to hide a smile.

Brian slams the door on the way out, and does not feel guilty when he hears Gus burst into tears. He doesn't do guilt. Just like he doesn't do apologies, and he doesn't do regrets.

 

 

He fucks a lot of men. It isn't a game this time, knowing that he's fucking with Justin as he lets some guy suck his dick in the backroom—this is pure and simple escape. He wants Justin gone. He's sick and tired of this fucking over-emotional, starry-eyed twink being in the back of his head  _all the fucking time_. He wants his mind back. He wants his solitude, his privacy, his ability to not give a fuck about anyone's feelings.

He knows all of this anger is hurting Justin. He can feel it.

He tells himself he doesn't care and pulls another trick into the backroom.

 

 

Somehow, Justin materializes at his door just as Brian is really, perfectly drunk.

"What happened?" Justin asks somehow stepping in before Brian can slam the door on him.

Brian presses a hand to the back of his head, where he can feel Justin's emotions thrumming—as always. "Get out of my head, you little shit."

A burst of defiance through their link, and Brian moans and sinks to the floor.

The defiance disappears quickly.

"I'm sorry," Justin apologizes hastily. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I just—I want to help. I could feel you, you were so…"

Brian stares up at him blearily. "You want to help? Help me prove that I didn't sexually harass fucking Kip Thomas? Help me get my fucking job back? Help me get my fucking  _head_  back?"

Justin swallows, and suddenly, Brian is furious. He can't think straight. He can't see straight. All he knows is rage, and he shoves it into their bond because Justin is like him and he'll feel it and he'll be in pain just like Brian is, and that's the whole idea of empathy, isn't it? Sharing pain? Justin can share his pain, he's the one that made this bond in the first place, he's the one who reached out, it's his fault, all his fucking fault.

He barely registers Justin's response to his fury, he's so busy driving it into the bond and into  _Justin_.

"I know," Justin's voice says from somewhere, broken by sobs, and there are hands clutching at his shirt. "I know how it feels. I feel it, too, Brian."

Brian just keeps pushing, throwing all of his anger, his hate, his absolutely  _rage_  into this fucking bond of theirs, so strong and hot that he hopes that it'll splinter the bond and he'll finally be free of this.

But it doesn't break.

Justin just takes it, absorbing like a sponge, never wavering. He feels Brian's pain and shares it unflinchingly.

And when Brian is finally spent, sprawled on the floor with a sobbing Justin on top of him, it occurs to him that this must be what empathy is.

Not sympathy. Sympathy means pretending to understand, but really just feeling pity. Empathy. Truly feeling another person's pain, recognizing it in yourself and forging that bond of kinship with the one who feels it just the same. Justin feels his pain. Justin feels his every emotion.

Drowsily, Brian musters a bit of warmth and sends it through the bond, stroking Justin's hair.

Justin sniffles and flicks his jaw. "Asshole," he mumbles.

The return whisperings of warmth he feels coming from Justin send him off to sleep before he can reply.

 

 

Brian hesitates the following morning, over coffee. "Justin, what I did last night—that wasn't right."

"No," Justin agrees readily. "But you needed it."

"I needed to lose complete control of myself and emotionally rape you?" Brian demands.

"It's what we're supposed to do," Justin replies with a slight shrug. "We're supposed to… take it. Make people feel less alone."

"That is  _not_  what we're supposed to do!" Brian shouts, slamming his mug down.

He feels the slight flare of fear from Justin, but Justin's face never flinches.

"That's not what you do, Brian," Justin says, almost patiently. "You shut it off. You don't let yourself feel anyone else's pain, maybe because you're too busy with your own to deal with anyone else's, but I don't do that."

"No," Brian snarls. "You just deal with everyone else's pain instead of your own."

"You needed to not feel alone last night. I don't regret what I did," Justin says stubbornly.

"You're the stupidest person I've ever met."

"Stupid enough to love you, apparently."

Brian growls. "Love isn't real. It's something humans manufactured to set themselves above the animal kingdom."

Justin stares back at him defiantly, and suddenly, there's a wash of—of— _something_  coming across the bond. It's warm and compassionate and filling and something that Brian's only felt from Justin in bits and pieces, or mixed in with ecstasy when Justin's coming all over the sheets.

It's all he can do not shove back with some kind of black emotion, just to shut off this stupid, gooey, happy feeling that's swelling inside of him.

He won't ever shove those black emotions at Justin again. Not just to hurt him.

Justin gives him a dazzling smile.

"Get out," Brian says, without much energy.

Unsurprisingly, Justin doesn't listen.

 

 

Brian gets his job back.

He thinks that maybe having Justin in the back of his head  _all the fucking time_  might not be so bad after all.

 

 

"You know what I've always thought was interesting?" Justin asks Brian one night.

Brian's hand is tracing over Justin's hip where the bruises are dark and splotchy. Justin took a little tumble down the stairs today, courtesy of Chris Hobbs. Brian felt the spikes of panic and pain at work. He and Justin fought about it earlier.

"What?" he asks, when it becomes clear that Justin isn't going to go on until he's sure Brian's listening.

"In English, we say 'I'm sorry'. It's an expression of… sadness. I feel bad for you and your pain. I pity you."

Brian grunts. "Which is why I don't believe in apologies."

Justin elbows him gently, and amusement passes through the bond. "Shh, I'm not done yet. You know what they say in Spanish?"

"Gracias?"

"That's 'thank you', doofus," Justin says, and Brian hear the eye roll. "In Spanish… they say 'lo siento'—literally translated, it means 'I feel it'. I feel your pain. Not 'I feel bad for you', but 'I share your pain'."

"Are you going to suggest that we be 'los sientos' or something? Or that I start calling you 'my lo siento'?"

"No," Justin says, elbowing him again. "I just think it's interesting, is all."

Brian's fingers continue to trace over the bruises on Justin's hip. The bond between seems to be rushing with emotion, tingly and electric. Sparks are flying. He's not sure who's putting what in and taking what out, the feeling is so completely one with his body.

"Lo siento, huh?" he eventually says.

Justin leans up and kisses his shoulder, breathing words against his skin. "Mm-hm. Lo siento, Brian."

Lo siento.

Brian thinks he just might.


End file.
